Santa, Baby
by arineat
Summary: Arthur comes home to find himself in a Winter Wonderland from his own personal Hell. Warnings: Graphic sex, tacky Christmas decorations and no plot to speak of.


It had been a Long Day. In fact, it had been one of the longest days Arthur had had in years.

It was Christmas Eve, the job was set to go down in just over a week and after the near-disaster that had been the Fischer job, Arthur wanted to make sure he had every last detail pinned down. He'd been working since early that morning and while the rest of the team had shown for a few hours each, they'd all left early, citing the holiday as their reason. Arthur hadn't minded. Cobb had his kids to celebrate with, Ari had a new boyfriend to spend the holiday with, Yusuf had plans involving a alcohol, stockings and a tiny Santa outfit for his cat, and Eames, well, Arthur worked better without him around to distract him, anyway.

Ariadne had tried to get Arthur to pack up early, but she'd given up when Arthur had shot her The Look. She'd left the warehouse mumbling about 'over-working' and 'Scrooge'. After spending another four and half hours at the warehouse, checking and double checking his information, Arthur systematically packed away his things and headed home.

When Arthur opened the door to his apartment, he simply stood and stared. Had he been attacked at that moment, Arthur would simply have let them gun him down, so blindsided was he by the sight that met his eyes. It looked as though the ghost of Christmas present had vomited all over his sitting room. Twinkle lights and tinsle littered the place along with dozens of holiday figurines and a plastic reindeer that appeared to be violating the life-size anamatronic Santa in the corner. A Santa that was dressed in what looked like one of Eames' brighter Paisley shirts.

Arthur's eyes continued along the path of Christmassy destruction to the massive tree that stood in the center of the room where his sofa usually sat. It glittered and shimmered with what looked like thousands of lights. Arthur would have said it was beautiful were it not for the obscene topper that brushed the ceiling.

Next to the tree, Eames sat in a throne – an honest-to-god _throne_ – wearing nothing but a Santa hat and beard, a pair of silky red boxers covered in candy canes, combat boots and possibly the cheekiest grin Arthur had ever seen.

He should have expected it, really. After all, he and Eames had been together for almost a year now. He should be more than used to coming home to strange greetings, but this...this really took the cake.

"Welcome home, darling," Eames greeted.

"Eames, what the hell is all of this?"

"That's Santa Eames to you, mister, and in case you didn't notice, it's Christmas Eve. You didn't even have any decorations up."

"That's it, I want my key back."

Eames' grin widened.

"Not a chance. Now come sit on Santa's lap," he said with a leer, patting his knee.

Arthur shut the door behind him, cursing himself for not having done so sooner – who knew what his neighbors had seen? – and moved further into the room, stripping off his coat and suit jacket as he went. He let out a curse as he nearly killed himself tripping over a plastic reindeer laden with what appeared to be a half-naked drunken cowboy Santa waving a lasso over his head.

"Watch out for Rudolph. Got him for a steal of a deal."

Arthur sneered at the offensive decoration. "I'm sure."

Rolling his eyes and suddenly desperate for a drink, Arthur moved into the kitchen and grabbed his emergency stash of wine.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I need a drink," Arthur snapped, his frustration mounting as he found himself on an increasingly epic quest for his corkscrew. Cupboard doors slammed and drawers were wrenched open at an increasingly frantic pace.

"Eames, where the hell is my fucking _corkscrew_?" Before Eames could reply, he added, "and I swear if you make an obscene joke about that, I'm not fucking you until after New Years."

Arthur could practically _hear_ Eames' pout from the other room. "Oh, darling, you're no fun."

"I don't care about being _fun_, I need _alcohol_. Where is my goddamned bottle-opener?"

"It should be in the drawer by the fridge."

Arthur rifled through the drawer in question and found nothing. "There's nothing here." Just to be sure, he pulled the drawer out and dumped it on the counter.

"Oh, wait. Actually, I think I lent that to Yusuf last week."

"Fuck," he muttered irritably, giving the bottle a longing look. "Well, we'll never see _that_ again."

Sighing heavily to himself, Arthur returned the wine to its place and rummaged in his liquor cabinet until he found a half-full bottle of whiskey. Grabbing the nearest shot glass he could find – one with a scanitly-clad Mrs Claus wrapped around it (really, _where_ did Eames _find_ these things?) - and filled it to the brim.

Three shots later, Arthur felt his tension melt away. Sure, he was in a tacky, slightly pornographic version of Santa's Workshop, but at least he had his whiskey. And Eames _did_ look kind of sexy in his Santa hat.

"Everything alright in there, pet?"

Arthur grabbed the bottle by its neck and headed out of the kitchen. "Absolutely. Just getting into the Christmas spirit."

Eames arched a brow. "I'm sorry, did you just make a terrible pun? My Arthur? How much of that have you had?"

"Not nearly enough," Arthur said with a snort as he picked his way across the wreck of his living room and came to a halt in front of Eames' throne.

Eames tipped his head back and gave him a cheeky grin that was somewhat marred by the bushy beard strapped to his face. Reaching down, Arthur wrapped his hand around the bottom and tugged, letting the elastic snap back against Eames' face.

"You look ridiculous," he said, doing his best to maintain his unimpressed expression. It was becoming harder by the moment, what with the alcohol now warming his veins.

Eames' eyebrows drew together. "That wasn't very nice, Arthur. If you aren't careful, you'll end up on my 'naughty' list."

Arthur smirked and stepped closer, swinging his long leg over Eames' lap and straddling him in one smooth, well-practiced movement. He set the whiskey bottle at the side of the throne and slowly ran his hands up Eames' arms. "And what if I _want_ to be on the 'naughty' list?"

Eames' fluffy beard twitched as his lips pulled into a smirk. "Well, I know of a few ways you could make the list."

Large, capable hands moved to grip Arthur's suit-clad ass, pulling him closer to Eames. "Come on and tell me what you want Santa to bring you, little boy."

Arthur's cock hardened swiftly at the deep, sensual purr of Eames' voice. It was utterly ridiculous that he should be turned on by this scenario; he'd never been big on Christmas and even if he had, Eames' tacky Christmas decor still would have horrified him, but here he was almost painfully aroused. It was nearly as bad as Halloween when Eames had dressed up in a giant pink bunny costume and had convinced Arthur to let him fuck him up against the wall. If he was ever asked about it, Arthur would claim temporary insanity caused by excessive drinking, but if he was honest with himself, it was starting to look like he wanted Eames no matter what the idiot was wearing.

"Honestly, Eames," Arthur drawled, "You of all people know I'm not a _little_ boy."

Arthur rolled his hips forward, grinding his trapped erection against Eames' silk-clad one, smirking as Eames' eyes rolled back into his head and a low groan fell from his lips.

"What about you, hm? What does _Santa_ want?"

Eames' hands tightened convulsively on Arthur's arse as he opened pupil-blown eyes to stare at him.  
>"You know what I want."<p>

And he did. Arthur knew because Eames had told him from day one what he wanted, he just hadn't been sure he could give it to him. Now, sitting in his lap in the midst of pornographic figurines and plastic reindeer, Arthur thought that maybe he could. Maybe he already had.

Eames' brows came together in a questioning look, but rather than answer him with words, Arthur leaned forward and took his lips in a lingering kiss. For a long moment their mouths moved together slowly, sensually, and Arthur poured every ounce of emotion into it, willing Eames to _feel_what Arthur wasn't quite ready to say.

One of Eames' hands slid up Arthur's back to cup his neck and in that split second, the kiss went from slow and sweet, to frantic and needy. Arthur tore his lips from Eames' just long enough to tear the ridiculous false beard from his face, ignoring the low curse Eames muttered as the elastic snapped against his ear as he leaned back in to ravage his mouth.

Eames' hands tore ineffectively at Arthur's waistcoat, nearly ripping the buttons loose until Arthur finally pulled back with a growl and deftly unbuttoned the garment, sliding it off. His fingers moved to his shirt, giving it the same treatment.

"Leave it," Eames ordered huskily as Arthur moved to take off his tie.

Arching a brow, Arthur did as he was told. He stood, tie and open shirt dangling, and toed off his shoes as he slid his pants and briefs down without preamble. Not bothering to remove his socks or their suspenders, Arthur moved to straddle Eames' lap once more.

"Wait," Eames said, stopping him before he could resume his position. He stood, his boxers tented obscenely, and gestured to the throne. "Kneel on the seat."

Rather than bristling at the order as he usually would, Arthur was assaulted by a wave of lust so palpable it nearly made his knees buckle. Taking a deep breath, he did as he was told, leaning his forearms against the back of the throne. Arthur spread his knees across the seat and arched his back, pushing his arse out and opening himself completely to Eames' gaze.

"_Fucking hell_," Eames breathed reverently.

Arthur could practically _feel_ Eames' eyes on him. After a moment, Arthur turned and arched a brow, affecting an air of nonchalance that was rather ruined by the blush he could feel burning his cheeks.

"Well? Aren't you going to give me my present?"

The words seemed to jolt Eames out of his reverie and into action. Any and all satisfaction at having affected Eames so viscerally was lost entirely as Arthur felt plump, wet lips press against his exposed hole. Warm hands gripped his cheeks and spread him wider as Eames' tongue circled the furled ring of muscles. Each and every pass wound the pleasure coiling in Arthur's gut tighter and tighter until he thought he would burst with it. Then Eames' tongue speared at his center and pushed deep to lick into his body and Arthur lost all control.

"Eames, for fuck's sake, I'm ready! Just fuck me already," he demanded as his body fairly trembled with want. The only thing keeping Arthur from melting into a puddle on the floor was his white-knuckle grip on the gaudy, carved back of the chair and Eames' hands on his ass.

Arthur felt more than heard Eames' chuckle, a low vibrating rumble that jangled already raw and aching nerves.

"What's the magic word?" Came Eames' unsteady reply.

"_Now!_" Arthur snarled.

"That'll do."

Less than a second later, the slick head of Eames' cock bumped against his entrance, caught briefly on the rim and finally, _mercifully_, pressed past the tight ring of muscles and deep into Arthur's body. Arthur moaned loudly, as he always did at the first thrust of Eames' cock. It was as if something clicked into place in that moment, a sort of inescapable _rightness_; as if Eames was created specifically for fucking Arthur. It sounded ridiculous and altogether much too sappy when Arthur thought about it any other time, but when Eames was there, pounding inside of him with just the right amount of force, his cock dragging against every single glorious nerve and pleasure center Arthur had, it wasn't sappy. It was simply truth.

Arthur's orgasm took him by surprise, crashing over him with an intensity that stole his breath and had him screaming Eames' name. Eames followed mere seconds after, filling Arthur with a wave of heat as he emptied himself into his willing body. The sensation had one last hot stream of come spurting from Arthur's cock and a pleasant shudder coursing through him.

Eames slumped forward, pressing Arthur into the soiled cushion of the throne, his lips brushing the patch of skin just below his ear as he fought to catch his breath. Arthur couldn't bring himself to protest. He didn't have the energy and, really, the light, deliberate scrape of Eames' crooked teeth along his neck was hardly something to complain about, even if he _could_ speak.

Finally, Eames moved away and pulled out of Arthur, allowing him to move. Arthur let out a soft sound of protest at the loss as he slid bonessly into the chair. He ended up sprawled across the throne, with one leg over the arm and his head tiled back against the headrest, a sated smirk curling his lips. His face and chest were still hot and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, causing his shirt to cling to him. There was a thin streak of come on the bottom of his hand-made, Japanese silk tie and he honestly couldn't bring himsef to care.

"Look at you," Eames purred, an appreciative glint in his eye, "you, Arthur, darling, are pure sex."

Arthur's smirk widened and he lifted a hand, beckoning to Eames imperialistically. Eames complied, taking his hand and kneeling when Arthur indicated he should.

"I quite liked my present, Mr Eames."

Eames arched an expectant brow.

"Excuse me, _Santa_ Eames."

"That's right," Eames said with a firm nod.

Arthur rolled his eyes and smiled. "So, would you like yours then?"

Eames grinned. "Go on then."

Arthur leaned forward and rifled through his discarded suit pants, withdrawing a key with a ribbon wrapped around it. Eames' smile disappeared the second he saw it, his eyes going carefully blank.

"What is that?"

"This is a key to my apartment."

"And you're giving it to me?"

"Obviously."

"Why?"

Arthur arched a brow. "Well, it saves me having to deal with the irritation of you constantly stealing _mine_, doesn't it?"

"Ah. Right, of course," Eames said, looking almost disappointed as he made to take the proffered key.

"And," Arthur said, not letting go when Eames tried to pull it away, "because I'm in love with you."

The look on Eames' face was one of a person who'd just been sucker punched. Slowly, as the words seemed to sink it, Eames' expression melted from shocked, to disbelieving and finally, to unadulterated happiness.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Arthur made a short squeaking sound as he suddenly found himself with a lapful of Eames and the breath being kissed from his lungs. "You know," he said once Eames had finally relenquished his lips long enough for him to speak, "I'm pretty sure this is supposed to be the other way around."

Eames snorted, removed his hat and pulled it down over Arthur's disheveled hair.

"There. Now _you're_ Santa."

Arthur arched a brow, but smiled and went along with it. "And what do you want Santa to bring you this year, little boy?"

Eames smiled. "Nothing at all. I already have everything I need."


End file.
